Compositions For The Young And Old

Poncey - my word of the day.

Sunday mornings seem full of cookery programmes; from Nigella's unbelievably fake kitchen - today she went 'hunter gathering' not in the woods or the fields, but bloody Waitrose! To some shit on Channel 5 where a cook was showing off his nice gadget that allows him to put creamed onions on a plate in a perfect rectangle - gah! Actually, that wasn't the worst thing about this programme; twice they referred to seasonal things - wild mushrooms (which have just about finished now, unless you want overblown field blewitts) and asparagus!!! Well, it's in season if you live in Peru.

Seriously, don't we want cooking programmes that actually apply to the majority of people watching?

***

This morning, The Observer has a column, from one of its more serious columnists, about how Strictly Come Dancing has lost its credibility... Duh... Apparently (I don't know as I've never watched it and never will) it has a panel of judges who determine who is best and worst at dancing, but then this panel of judges is ignored in favour of the British public's own voting preference; which means that regardless of how much Ann Widdicombe is dragged around the floor as a kind of sentient floor mop, she's now in with a chance of winning the show because people are voting for her to stay. I wasn't aware that SCD was a comedy show. Anyhow, what is the point of having a panel of judges if the bottom line is decided by a public that paradoxically watches this shit in the first place and thinks it would be cool to allow a fat, unfuckable, fascist to remain while allegedly talented people get kicked off?

Also in the Observer was their Picture of the Week: from the new Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (part 1). It has, as you can see, our three heroes all grown up. Now keep this image in your head, because I'm going to seem like I'm digressing...

On Friday, on the Graham Norton Show, there were four guests; Colin Farrell, Rhianna, Rhod Gilbert and hot from the premiere of the above film, one Daniel Radcliffe. Apart from being a really tiny fella, Radcliffe looked totally overwhelmed. It was like he couldn't believe he was in the presence of Rhod Gilbert, let alone the two A listers. He was self-effacing, slightly embarrassed and totally human. You can't help like the bloke. He was even prepared to make a tit of himself and yet he was treated by the 3 fellow guests like he was the true A list celebrity there.

Now, look again at the picture to the left. Look at the poppies the three of them are wearing. Watson and Grint are sporting designer poppies, which I believe retail for about £80 each. Yeah, they might have bought them, but Radcliffe is wearing a bog standard poppy, the kind you buy off the corner of a street from a war veteran.

Don't you think that it looks better on him than the designer ones do on his lesser supporting cast? Would you also agree that it sort of makes him look as though Armistice Day might mean more to him?

***

Just a little mention for a genius. Bob Mould - nuff said.

***

Roger said on the way home from the restaurant last night that he'd seriously considered writing a review of the place before we went; but had opted against it.

The reason was simple; sometimes my favourite food place in the world is a bit of a let down. Pooja, the real Indian restaurant in Wellingborough, is a real haven for great vegetarian food; but once in a while it all seems to go to pot. Last night was one of those rare occasions where they screwed up; yet it all started so well.

I think one of the problems is that we use the place so much we've sort of become like old furniture. There's a familiarity and informality there now that seems to transcend actual service and courtesy. Last night, we got our starters in double quick time - our spouses receiving a plate of potato bhajiya - a wonderful mix of slice spud, gram flour and delicate spices deep fried - and Roger and I our chilli paneer and mogo chips. it was all fresh and piping hot.

However, by the time our main courses arrived something had gone wrong. Roger and the wives had all ordered dosas - which are essentially crispy pancakes filled with a spicy bubble and squeak like mixture. they are quite wonderful; but they really need to be hot. That's hot as in temperature. I was having my favourite meal of all time Kadai Bengun Aloo - or potato and aubergine curry and for a change I opted for a vegetable pilao rather than just plain rice. The dosas were all cold, or lukewarm at best. My curry was okay, but the rice was stone cold.

I rarely complain, but this once I was going to. There is nothing worse at an Indian restaurant than having cold rice. There is nothing worse than the waiter trying to pass it off and attempt to put said cold rice on your plate, insisting that it was hot under the cold top. I stopped him and insisted I had hot rice. He relented, but I wasn't happy. Yes, we eat at this place about 9 times a year and we're friends with the owner and manager; but we also expect good service. Former waiter, Lallis, who went back to Gujarat in 2008 is sorely missed, as his replacement has taken our friendship with his employers as a friendship with him and seems to think we'll expect substandard food because of this relationship.

The manager, Myood, seemed intent on giving us a big bag of Indian sweets as we were leaving; almost as if he was aware we weren't happy. It made me feel slightly embarrassed, because in the 9 years we've been going to this place, he has always been the most cordial of gentlemen. It isn't going to stop us from going, but it has made us a little reluctant about doing it again so soon...

***

The new car has been purchased. It's a bit weird; having a new(ish) car. It takes getting used to. If its a 2nd hand car then there are other things that you worry about. Is that smell normal? Should it do that? Did the guy at the car showroom lie through his teeth about putting a tenner's worth of petrol in it and if he did how come it's all gone in a 22 mile round trip?

Remarkably, it seems the Zafira is actually bigger than the Doblo. Obviously not as boxy or as tall, but a lot longer, which will make parallel parking interesting until we both get used to driving it. I think the wife was amazed at my patience towards her yesterday; I didn't seem (nor feel) to give her a hard time about getting used to driving it. And so it should be!

***

Controversy time:

I'm a bit of a pacifist. I don't believe in the armed forces, therefore Remembrance Sunday means nothing to me at all. People who want to die for their country, especially in butt holes like Iraq and Afghanistan aren't big or clever; they're stupid. The armed forces top brass who feel we should spend more money on this fictional war against terror should all be offered the chance to go and work for country's that actually need generals. Supporting 'our boys' is supporting war and violence and hurt and grief and pain. I'm not being disrespectful, I'm being realistic.

If I was in charge of the country I'd turn our armed forces into the equivalent of Norway's. Just enough to defend our shores, if really necessary and maybe a few extra to bolster the UN's peace corps. I'd scrap all nuclear weapons and actively encourage Muslims to join my nice little defensive army. Not only would it save shit loads of money, but might stop us from being a potential target of fundamentalists.

Obviously it wouldn't work, because we're a belligerent warmongering country. But I can dream.

The Musical Box

Despite watching Never Mind the Buzzcocks for what seems like an eternity. This week's one was quite brilliant and all I can suggest is the guest presenter is kept on forever.

I was only thinking how, maybe, I was getting a wee bit too old for the show; so many people on it that I had no idea who they were and a mentality that appeared to pick on one specific guest every week. However, this week, even the two captains seemed spellbound by the guest presenter. Some bloke called Terry Wogan and by God was he the dog's buzzcocks! I haven't laughed so much at this show for years, but then again I've believed Wogan to be a genius since his days on Blankety Blank. (Plus the comedian Rufus Hound is like a cross between Eddie Izzard and my good pal Jay Eales...) If you can find it on the iPlayer - watch it; it's fecking brilliant!

I miss Terry's morning show on BBC Radio 2. I can't listen to Evans, despite him apparently being more popular than God...

Speaking of bonkers TV; you really need to watch Autumnwatch Unsprung every Thursday. It is, well, bonkers TV. Quite brilliantly made, thoroughly entertaining and who the hell needs Bill Oddie?

Equally entertaining is Giles and Sue do the Good Life also on BBC2. If the rest of the series is as entertaining as the first one then BBC2 are likely to be the channel discerning TV viewers will choose between now and that rather over publicised event that takes place in the week before New Year...

***

Quick health update: Today - Friday - I attempted to go through the entire day, for the first time in 5 weeks, without taking a painkiller. It is now 3 minutes to midnight and I can't really understand why I wanted to do something like that... Perhaps it was the fear that I might be building up a resistance or tolerance to them. trust me; that hasn't happened yet. One thing I did notice was that considering I haven't got arthritis, just about every joint in my body was aching today.

I've now gone 6 weeks without any nicotine or smoke entering my body - I'm a bit chuffed at myself!

***

That was last night; this is now...

Some people have a way of surprising you, while others continue along in the way you want to remember them. During all my years involved in the comics industry, there were, to be fair, very few 'cool' people. Even some of my best friends had an element of nerdism about them. I always claimed that I was the most normal person in comics, which might explain why I did so well considering I was just a half-arsed writer for a tin pot comics magazine.

Two things happened this week that directly link to the above paragraph. The first was discovering that comics inker Jimmy Palmiotti has a blog - http://jimmypalmiotti.blogspot.com/ Nothing unusual about that, I hear you cry. No, but it seems to be a straightforward mix of spotlights on comics artists and soft porn pics.

Once upon a time, I was involved in a highly amusing (I thought so) group of individuals called Spoof Central, who basically wrote comics spoof stories. There was an element of madness about them and unlike the puerile comics humour that still exists, this was a project that attempted to HIGNFY comics magazine and websites - because, let's face it, the comics industry is so far up its own arse it tickles its own epiglottis. Any of you who have any idea how the comics industry and its fan are will know this was an idea guaranteed to fail and miserably. Even in the successful days of Borderline, the World of Heros column, by the mad as a clunge Chris Spicer was constantly attacked for not being funny, or for being too invasive. Comics fans, you see, put their comics and their comics creators on pedestals so high that they look down on clouds. Have a go at these demigods and you will receive death threats or dog shit filled parcels through your door.

The Spoof Central team had a few comics creators who they targeted, all in the name of satire and comedy, and one of them was Jimmy Palmiotti, who, unlike many others, came out of it remarkably well. The reason was The Sopranos was a huge hit at the time and Jimmy was portrayed as this Mafioso styled comics guru who broke your legs (or worse) if you crossed him or his people. In fact, Jimmy was the Tony Soprano of the comics industry and it was one of the running jokes of the columns - check some of them out here: http://www.comicsbulletin.com/spoof/archive.htm but be warned, you probably won't understand any of them!

How about that for a digression? Palmiotti's blog does however seem to be worth visiting, especially if you like comics and tits.

The other comics related story that I heard this week was about the immensely untalented former editor of Comics International, one Mike Conroy. The man responsible for completely destroying a magazine that was already slowly atrophying. Conroy inherited the editorship mantle of the magazine I used to work for and managed in the space of several months to turn it from a moderately well patronised monthly magazine into a totally unpatronised magazine that appeared when there was a Z in the month. I believe he managed to produce 4 issues in 4 years, thus turning it into an annual without really trying (which, I believe was the story of his life).

Apparently, he was at a recent comics thing in London and was spotted by a dear (as in expensive) friend of mine, who reported this: [Conroy] looks like death warmed up and his new CI replacement venture is doomed before it begins - he was wandering around apologising to dealers because the first issue's delayed (thus fucking up a lot of advertisers who are already asking for their money back) due to investors pulling out. Also, the thing looks like a piece of shit.

To say this brightened up a crap week is both spiteful and bloody hilariously true!

The sad truth is that comics magazines are a thing of the past and if you have any hope of making one work you need to be several things - good at what you do, have some design acumen and not be a tortoise in a world of hares - none of the things my former colleague has. The other sad thing is he was once a pretty decent bloke - there are many out there that still believe this -but he did a series of unbelievably c*ntish things over the space of 5 years between 1997 and 2002, which I can only believe has allowed some really bad karma into his life.

Anyhow, moving on...

***

Going to pick up the wife's newish car now. I just hope it proves to be a good buy and gives us the kind of service the old Doblo did.

Looking For Someone

Yeah, I know, this is becoming a habit. I'm in danger of burning myself out or even boring the tits off of all my loyal readers. But, as my (big) boss told me today, when he phoned to see how I was getting on, I have to do something to stop myself from going batshit.

Today, I watched a former video nasty and came to the conclusion that we were all once so naive that we believed all the hype. Had The Evil Dead been released in the Internet age it probably would have been labelled a comedy immediately rather than it taking 20 years to achieve that status.

Watching this Sam Raimi début was a reminder of an event that happened a long time ago, in a world that has been rebuilt now.

Back in the early 1980s, I was loosely associated with a group of individuals who called themselves The Core. These included Mitch Jenkins, Alex Novak, Barry Hale and someone else, it might have been Tim Perkins, but equally it might not have been. It might have been Pat Fish, but if it was I'm sure I would have remembered. Anyhow, these talented and endearing individuals launched a series of arty events called Happenings and they were incredibly well received throughout the town of Northampton. Then they got bored with them and went off and did their own things.

I was unemployed at the time and decided that, 'hey, I can do that', so I concocted The Happening 3: The Final Con Trick, which was to take place at the College of Further Education's Arts Centre, on Booth Lane, which has since (very recently) been rebuilt as a modern carbuncle. We had various things planned for it - a puppeteer, John (Alex's brother) Novak's band, a up and coming band from Luton, an exhibition of photography called Nahwretam and the Sex Queue, an alternative comedy duo called The Great Excreto and Labia (I'll tell you about them and Dick & Bob at some point), a local Lesbian musical act, kidneys in toilets, a selection of poetry written by Marc Almond and the first unofficial screening of Sam Raimi's banned The Evil Dead. It was going to be an arts extravaganza beyond belief.

It was a complete and total disaster!

For starters, we were frugal with the truth and didn't mention on the posters or PR that Marc Almond wasn't actually going to be there in person. This pissed off a lot of people. Secondly, the band from Luton didn't even bother unpacking their kit, they just took the piss and left. they never came to much and I laugh still. The guy dealing with the PA and sound threatened to leave unless he was paid before the show/event started and I had to resort to threatening him with physical violence and because of these problems at least half of the people waiting fucked off before it even started; leaving us with a huge deficit in money.

But, the puppeteer, a guy called Garafalo (no relation) was brilliant and got the crowd going. John Novak's band played and went down a storm and by this time I'd managed to pay the sound guy, so he didn't sneak out the back door. The lesbian cabaret act came on and also went down very well and despite the feeling of total amateur night, things were going swimmingly. The fact that I was short £100 and probably couldn't pay every one was a minor quibble.

Then things started to go wrong, very badly. We started the screening of The Evil Dead and the theatre area of the arts centre was packed out with paying customers - people were still arriving and the short fall was down to £60. It was also packed out with the lesbian cabaret act, [plus their entourage and when the part in the film where one of the girls is 'raped' by a tree appeared, all hell broke loose.

My partner in crime, Colin O'Kane, said that they wanted to have a word with me and he didn't sound as though they wanted to offer congratulations. I was a little worried as he was 50% responsible for this debacle, but seemed intent on differing everyone in my direction. He wasn't into confrontations, so he sent them all in my direction. I was in the toilets, peeing on some of the kidneys in the urinals, when the door swung open and 3 burly lesbians came stampeding into the men's loos. The only thing I can remember clearly was one of them referring to the 'tree rape' scene and shouting in my face that, "stuff like that really happens!". Maybe the best answer was not to say, "What trees rape women?" Because she had to be restrained from beating me to death with her dungarees.

During all of this, Mitch J and Barry H of the original Core were standing around laughing like proverbial drains at the whole sorry mess. I was furious at Colin for his lack of balls and ducking out of the firing line, despite him being 50% responsible (should have taken heed from this, he was even worse as my best man). But there wasn't much I could do about it, apart from escape.

And that's exactly what I did. Upon finding Colin, who by this time had gotten pissed out of his head (very much what he did at my wedding), I gave him the remainder of the money and asked him to hold onto it in case of a robbery. I explained that we were going to have to share it out between everyone rather than give any preferential treatment. This seemed to convince him that holding the cash wasn't a bad idea and I then crawled into the back of Mitch's Triumph Dolomite, hid under a blanket and was driven away from there as fast as his little motor would go.

I don't know how Colin dealt with everything; it was sort of one of those incidents from our youth that went by the by and was never spoken of again; and, of course, the above is a fairly abridged version, owing to memories not being as sharp as they once were.

Anyhow, watching The Evil Dead today was a bit of a nostalgia trip and made me realise what a complete and utter pile of shit it is. It's quite brilliant in places, but it's also turd-like; immensely turd-like. Only Bruce Campbell comes out of it with any cred and only just; the general acting and pacing is all over the place; the stop motion camera work is hilarious and even the bits which got it banned in the first place are poor, very poor. There is the very nasty rape scene, the one the lesbians got so riled up about and, to be fair, it, in a way, was totally unnecessary; but it was also quite comical, if a rape can be comical.

The film does have a great sense of presence; but it also stinks. All the tension it tries to deliver fails miserably and you wonder how Raimi could possibly have believed in his own script when shooting it. Anyhow, I'm going to watch The Evil Dead II later (or tomorrow) and marvel at how it can be called a sequel, when in reality it was just a (badly re-imagined) remake of the first with a bigger budget.

Last Night

So, MRI out of the way.

I should think for the uninitiated, an MRI is quite a daunting thing. You are shoved into a tunnel, just a bit bigger than yourself (how really really fat people fit inside them is a bit of a mystery) and are subjected to a mixture of roadwork noises and the kind of bleeps and blurts that you'd imagine disco biscuit fanatics of the Rave scene would be dancing to. Lying inside of it today, the 4th movement reminded me of that episode of Spaced where the guy who sold them drugs was last seen dancing to the bleeping of a level crossing. If the headphones had been up louder I might have struggled not to make some shapes, man...

***

The wife.

Actually before I get onto the main point; someone the other day said to me. "Why do you refer to your wife as 'the wife' or 'the missus' in your blog?" Well, apart from the fact that she is my 'wife' and my 'missus', there's two perfectly reasonable reasons.

The first is the same reason as my good friend Rad. His wife or 'breadknife' as he calls her (he's from the East End you see so everything has to cockney rhyme, me old Ebeneezer) hasn't got an on-line presence, doesn't like the Internet in the same way as he does and thinks that her privacy is her business; so Rad keeps her identity at arm's length.

The second reason is purely for on-line security. The more people I don't know who read my blog or might have access to my personal info on Facebook (because of unknown friends associated with the game I now no longer play) makes me a little nervous. I'd rather these people knew as little about me as possible. There are lots of Phil Halls out there, but maybe not many with a wife whose name is the same as mine. Simple (not 'simples' as that fucking stuffed meerkat says).

Anyhow, the wife bought a replacement car today. A silver/grey Vauxhall Zafira on an 04 plate that had done 10k more miles than her treasured Doblo. But it looks like a pretty spotless car, drives well and didn't cost an arm and a leg. It also means that I get my car back (not that I'm doing a lot of driving at the moment, but it stops it being used as a dog transporter, which it really isn't designed to do unless in emergencies). She picks it up on Saturday lunchtime and is quite excited about it!

Yay for her!

***

The wife - you know the one, I've mentioned her before - has used the Internet more in the last month than she has since it was invented. She doesn't like my keyboard either, but that's neither here nor there. She has noticed that this new computer does odd things. Odd things like ignore commands, doesn't print things when prompted and queries the legitimacy of words that even an American spell checker would accept.

What she hasn't noticed is, cos she doesn't have a Facebook account (and isn't likely to until Hell gets turned into a big pile of chocolate), is that Facebook doesn't like my new PC much either. For instance if I ask it to refresh the page it gets halfway through the act and then stops, leaving me the frames of the page but none of the content. it also seems to change its mind about what to display in 'most recent'. One minute it will have something from one minute ago and the next it's completely disappeared and I'm left with stuff that was posted anything from an hour to a week ago.

Another quirk of Facebook is this choice we have of Top News and Most Recent. As my good friend Roger pointed out the other day, "What is the point of Top News?" What I would like to know is how Facebook determines what Top News is? Why there is even a choice? And is it put there just to piss the users' off?

That said, I visited my MySpace page the other day and saw that not only has it attempted to copy Facebook, but it's done it so badly I just wanted to pluck my eyes out.

Once upon a time, I was on a Yahoo group with my friends and everything was relatively simple. Now even that has been made complicated.

And talking of complicated, the wife - you remember her - has been on line trying to insure her new car. She's been on various websites where she's had to register details to be able to get quotes. When they tell you on adverts it takes 2 minutes and is easy and simple - DO NOT BELIEVE THEM!

***

It seems that I'm actually going to return to some journalism over the next couple of months! Totally unpaid, but for the love of it only. I'm going to be doing some articles and interviews with two of my favourite bands.

I shall be updating and doing a new interview with Sel Balamir from Amplifier to coincide with the release of The Octopus. It's Amplifier's new double album and I urge anyone who likes good rock music to go to their website and buy it. You can access it via http://www.amplifiertheband.com/merchandise.php, but only the digipak version is still available.

I am also going to finally do an interview with my good buddy Steve Messina of Blow Up Hollywood to help promote the band's current album, Take Flight and the forthcoming album, due in early 2011. For people who want to become acquainted with this more eclectic rock band, go to http://www.blowuphollywood.com/ - the first page you come to is the same image that adorns the T shirt I'm wearing on my current Facebook page pic. If you have any idea what it is, tell me!

I'm not doing either of these things for personal gain. I'm doing it because both these bands are worth patronising - they produce good music that hasn't been graced by the same PR machine as some shit bands that are out there have. Plus, it pays to have a look around for different kinds of music. people shouldn't be led by the nose by radio stations and what's 'hot'. 9 times out of 10, what's hot is normally not.

***

Tomorrow, I'm going to do some baking again - this time for the wife (you remember her). I'm going to try a Traditional Scottish Sultana Cake, which, because I don't eat dried fruit sounds positively ugh. However, I wasn't aware that sultanas (or raisins for that matter) were traditionally Scottish; therefore is this a lie?

Drops of Jupiter

We're odd. We must be. We don't watch either X Factor nor Strictly Come Dancing. In fact, I, personally, would rather take razor blades to my genitals than be subjected to this utter bowel movement of 'entertainment'.

I've never really been much of a common denominator TV kind of person and the last time I watched anything on ITV (other than possibly a film) was in 2001. So I missed all those gloriously shit programmes like Britain's Got No Talent or Pop Stars: The Wankers. The thing that appals me more is that my two nephews both seem to be fans, which means that all their young friends are also watching these poor excuses for entertainment. I sort of understand that their dad, my tasteless brother, and his wife watch this crap, but they have lives even less exciting than mine; but what the fuck has happened to the world? It seems we (and I use the term 'we' very loosely) like encouraging arseholes like Simon Cowell or Anton Du Burke to take over our TV screens. And Bruce fucking Forsyth should know better.

Oddly enough, I know a really really crude story relating to a play on words regarding that ballroom dancing piece of shit. A mate of mine, who shall remain nameless, but will know who he is (as he reads this) has a thing for outdoor sex (he's obviously not going to be doing it today based on the monsoon going on outside my window) and fortunately for him, so does his partner. Once coitus has finished, she is left with this problem that I'm sure some women are all too familiar with - and one that I'm reluctant to be specific about. Suffice it to say, after the sex has been finished, she gets up and dances around, prompting him to christen her moves as Strictly Cum Dancing...

***

The BBC it seems has declared that autumn lasts 2 weeks. Why? Well, on the last Sunday of October, there was a Country File: Autumn Special, which celebrated the arrival of autumn. On last night's show, the truly dislikeable Julia Bradbury (who it seems replaced the 4 previous female presenters because they were too old and unattractive) announced that next week's episode they would be celebrating the end of autumn...

Speaking of seasons; the wife pointed out an article in last weekend's Observer, where the author of the piece claimed that this year we saw four season for the first time in years. Just where did this guy live?

I'm sure you could say we had four seasons. Winter lasted until May; Spring came to a thudding halt halfway through June and Summer ended at the end of July. Autumn is still going strong, but ends next Sunday according to the BBC. This year has been anything other than a normal year; which might explain why the fruits on trees were so big; which I think is a real puzzle considering the blossom on our apple and plum trees didn't come out until the end of May.

***

Jesus, it is grim out there. I woke up this morning and staggered (literally) out of bed and if the alarm clock hadn't said 8.53am, I would have thought it was about 6.30am. Looking at the weather forecast on the BBC, it seems that this particular low pressure area has stuck a pin in Northampton and is going to circle it for the next 24 hours.

I feel exceptionally sorry for the two aerial fitters over the road, who are up on the roof of the house to the right of the one opposite. It's chucking it down and blowing a gale and they look like they could do with a nice cup of tea and a hot blanket (and a few safety nets).

Why the hell couldn't this have settled over the UK throughout the weekend. it might have put some of those firework wankers off of disturbing every living soul with their childish antics...

***

Apparently, there was a study that determined that there is no such thing as a grumpy old man; it said that we're either grumpy or not and getting older doesn't have any bearing on it. Hah!

***

I am staring at a front garden full of mushrooms! The house over the road (the one with the exhibitionist Eastern Europeans) has a huge clump of field blewitts (lepista nuda) growing on it. They came up last year and I was tempted to go and tell them they could eat them. You'd think, them being from Europe and everything, that they'd know an edible mushroom if they saw one. But, then again, on Saturday night, while I was checking my emails, I noticed they were watching X Factor on their 80" flat screen TV...

***

So Pulp are reforming in 2011.

Woo and indeed hoo.

***

While writing yesterday's blog entry, the Blogger spell checker refused to accept the word "show's"; it would allow me "shoe's" and "shows" but not the former. It is an American spell checker to be fair, but as most Americans refer to TV programmes as a show, surely the possessive of that would be show's?

Oops, sorry, I forgot... Americans... How silly of me.

***

Having exhausted the B movies (and a really crap TV mini-series from the 90s), I'm moving onto obscure films of the 1960s and that means a film that I'm reliably informed inspired George Romero's zombie movies. The Last Man on Earth stars the brilliant Vincent Price in the original adaptation of Richard Matheson's I Am Legend. Made in Italy in 1964 for about a million lira (or £40), it has all the hallmarks used by Romero in Night of the Living Dead, but in the immortal words of Michael Caine, not a lot of people know that.

I also have (inspired by Roger) Excalibur to watch again; the unexpurgated version of The Exorcist, The Disappearance of Alice Creed (which may or may not feature Gemma Arterton in the buff), Scott Pilgrim versus the World (which if its anything like the comic I will probably stop watching after 5 minutes) and a film about Elvis Presley battling the Mummy called Bubba Ho-Tep, which stars Bruce Campbell, from The Evil Dead trilogy, as the ageing burger-meister.

Who says being off sick has to be boring...

All the Things She Said

As it has been pointed out to me by countless people, pots shouldn't go round calling kettles black. I often show that my grammar needs some work on it, especially if I post things to my blog without giving it a thorough read through first. But, hey, I'm not getting paid for it, so why should I bother?

Well... I should bother because for the most part, most of what people put on line is like putting it in print. it is there to potentially haunt you by coming back whenever you least expect it. Fortunately, most of the criticisms aimed at me are for things like split infinitives and bad tenses and most of the time I'm addressing a small group of people, many of who know me and hopefully will see that the majority of what I write is basically the way that I talk.

However, Facebook has for me provided loads of laughs in recent years, laughs and cringe-worthy sentences that just make you want to scream abuse at the writers. Take this for instance: Im cutting down 1st then gonna phase it out that way i was on 20+ a day and gone to 8/10 not bad for me dot cotton said she proud too pmsl .... you can do it *** will power and lots of chewing gum hehehe ...

What exactly does that mean? Or this: awwwwwwwwww but ull do any think for your ***** tho *** lol.xx ... What the f...? Don't get me wrong; these are comments made to one of my nieces in response to Facebook status updates, which is why I've put asterisks instead of peoples' names. Presumably my niece and the people who write this drivel will know what they're on about, but for bystanders like myself, it's a little like reading a foreign language.

It's just a shame that today's yoof (and I use that expression loosely as most of my nieces' friends are between the ages of 25 and 35) seems to think that writing like ignorant amoeba is acceptable. What is more worrying is that a lot of these people have children.

Oh the curse of text speak...

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Fireworks are shit. It amazes me that so many people go out and spend between £50 and £100 on average to go 'ooh' and 'ahh' at pretty bright lights in sky? What amazes me even more is the fact that people don't seem to understand that Bonfire Night is November 5th, not the 4th or the 3rd or the 6th or even October 31st. And, what amazes me even more than that is that a lot of people hold firework parties, obviously not for their kids, and set fireworks off after midnight, thus disturbing every living thing for a 5 mile radius?

These people are obviously the biggest c*nts God ever deemed worthy of breath.

Okay, fireworks aren't shit and if I didn't have a third of a dozen dogs I might even enjoy them; but it does seem that this year, more than recent years, we've had far too many going off and they seem to have got louder and more invasive. Last night, at 12.30am, some twat (and at the risk of sounding racist, some fucking Eastern European twat) decided it would be a good idea to set off a banger that went bang 25 times and sounded a little how I'd imagine Hiroshima sounded the day Enola Gay came to visit; this was then followed by lots of drunken shouting and laughing. I'm afraid I had to stick my head out of the bedroom window and shout 'WANKER' as loud as I could - unfortunately the people letting off these thunderously expensive gunpowder tubes probably don't know what wanker means...

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Dragging myself away from being a miserable old git and onto matters of television. After giving The Walking Dead a pretty wonderful review last week, I realised that while there are few programmes on television at the moment that I would consider classics, there are a few that I think are pretty damned fine. None more so than...

The Vampire Diaries

I know, I know. You're either thinking 'what the hell has gotten into him' or 'how can he think that pile of Twilight droppings be considered as good?' But the truth is, this has become one of the maddest TV shows on at the moment. VD as its called in our house is one of those shows that we should have dropped 20 minutes into the first episode; definitely should have given up on it after 3 episodes, but has now become one of the highlights of the week - albeit reluctantly.

The best way of summing up the vast improvement this show has taken is to look at a review from The Independent, where reviewer Sarah Hughes states: The Vampire Diaries turns into "a well-crafted, interestingly developed series", despite a poor opening episode. And that's basically it. The first three episodes of the first season were pretty crappy and I was pretty amazed that it managed to improve to the point where it easily got optioned for a second series. It's now like Twilight on crack and LSD and despite it being a Kevin Williamson series, that shouldn't really put you off.

Fringe

Is possibly my favourite TV show from the States at the moment, because like VD it's just a wee bit bonkers and you really have no idea where its going to go next. Also it's by that popular chap called JJ Abrams, the bloke who did Lost and more recently Cloverfield and the Star Trek reboot. My argument is that John Noble, who plays the stunningly fantastic mad scientist Walter Bishop is arguably the best character on TV at the moment. Plus it has fellow Antipodean Anna Torv in the lead role and if I didn't have a bad back and a lovely wife I'd consider stalking her until she let me do evil and despicably sex-related things to her!

The 2 other US TV shows that I'm watching are Smallville (yes, I'm still watching it) which seems to have forgotten how crap it was and the final series is moving along at a great pace and with some bloody good stories and Stargate Universe which apart from copping out big time at the start of season 2 has been a really grimly enjoyable watch. Even Robert Carlyle, totally miscast and out of place, adds some gravitas to a franchise that really started to wander up its own arse. However, the best thing in the show is undoubtedly Louis Ferreira who plays Colonel Everett Young, the commander of the show's Ancient-built star ship. Just watching him go quietly mad over the last 2 months has been a joy to watch.

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MRI time on Tuesday, but not just that. The wife is going to look at a replacement car for her poor old Doblo. She's going common and taking a chance on a Vauxhall Zafira - depending on whether she feels comfortable driving it and if we can fit the dogs in the back without having to remove all the seats. My argument is that something as common as a Vauxhall is going to be easier for spares and should be cheaper to service. She would like a new Postman Pat van lookalike, but is facing the frightening reality of it having to be a French car and any one who knows us well enough will know that French cars and me don't mix... Hence why a specific make of French car will forever be known as a "Fucking Renault" rather than anything else!

Fake

I lied. I do that sometimes. You will understand why very shortly.

There's a saying; if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and sounds like a duck, then it must be a duck. It makes sense, but equally, Sherlock Holmes will tell you that once you've exhausted all the logical explanations whatever is left has to be considered.

My friend Will made the suggestion last week, when I was feeling like five day old shit, that I probably had flu. You see, it looked like flu, sounded like flu and despite my protestations that it was possibly withdrawal symptoms, he argued, logically, that most people get one or two side effects from dodgy drugs, not an entire arm full. However, after seeing my (new) doctor, she said that what I had experienced was undoubtedly withdrawal and that morphine-based drugs can have varying affects on people.

By Tuesday afternoon, I was feeling pretty good, in a relative way. I was happy that I'd got most, if not all, of those nasty painkiller drugs out of my system. Yes, I still felt a bit dodgy, but nowhere near as bad as I had done over the weekend and on Monday. In fact, Monday was so bad that I just wanted to curl up in a ball and die.

However, by Wednesday evening things took a turn for the worse. Except this time I wasn't alone. The wife was feeling exactly the same as me and as she had not taken any of the devil's Oxycodone, we had to presume that whatever was wrong was now something new. I have been told off for being a miserable git just recently, so I wasn't about to make things worse by pontificating about an almost continuous run of ill health; although it certainly feels that way. The doctor told me that a mixture of repetitive boredom, pain and lifestyle is enough to bring a person down and make them feel like they're catching every bad thing possible; but when the wife started feeling crappy it sort of pooh-poohed that idea.

It seems that we might have eaten something that didn't agree with us. A Tesco cheese and potato lattice pie, which was (I was told) very nice, but seemed to have adverse affects on both of us. It probably didn't give us food poisoning, but upset our stomachs enough to make us both feel like pooh. It seemed to have more lasting effects on me than it did on her and it seems to have exacerbated my inability to taste anything. Since Wednesday, I also seem to have rediscovered heartburn and indigestion, which appeared to have deserted me completely during the first 25 days of stopping smoking.

Speaking of taste, as I mentioned it briefly recently. I didn't ask my doctor why the hell I seem to have lost my sense of taste over the last few weeks. I mean, I could taste thing perfectly (well, as perfectly as I believed) before I packed up smoking and now it seems that I can't taste bugger all*. Or, to be more specific, everything tastes the same, unless it's got a lot of salt in it. I even got to the stage where I decided, after not finding anything on the net that helped, to go to Yahoo Answers to see if anyone on there had any bright ideas. To date, the only answer I've got is that years of smoking have permanently damaged by receptors to the brain and its unlikely to get better - which, I could understand if I had no sense of taste before I packed up smoking.

I'm hoping that its a mixture of change of lifestyle and the last knockings of the withdrawal. There is a school of thought amongst experts that when you stop smoking your body undergoes a huge battle, which involves repairing itself as well as struggling to cope with the sudden change in its usual routine. Which, if you think about it makes some sense. After all, some of the well known things that happen after quitting include a quick return of your sense of smell, massive appetite surges, insomnia and a change in your digestive reactions (or as a friend once said to me, quite disgustingly - your shit starts to stink again!). So, there might be things that happen to individuals rather than en mass. Or I might just be clutching at straws and I'm never going to appreciate the taste of anything ever again...

Two paragraphs above I put an * at the end of the second sentence; the reason for this is that I'm pretty sure that my lack of taste buds has happened since I started taking the Oxycodone, although if you look at the side effects of that drug, losing your sense of taste doesn't feature at all. However, some extensive research on Google suggests that some peoples' taste buds are affected by Oxycodone; it's rare, but then again so is experiencing a shedload of side effects.

The upshot of all of this is that while I am now two weeks away from my proposed return to work; I can't see that happening the way I feel. On top of the feeling crappy, indigestion and general malaise; I also have what appears to be a problem with the muscles and tendons in my left leg - caused by inactivity. I can't actually straighten my left leg and if I try to it feels like someone is tugging the tendons like a double bass. I also have very little balance on it - this was perfectly highlighted by my doctor when she got me to stand on one leg. I almost fell over! Which is why I've been using a walking stick most of the time.

I also drove my car for the first time in ages on Tuesday evening. The wife was struggling to park because there were no obvious parking spots and I took over the chore. Using the clutch seemed to aggravate the tendon problem and by Wednesday morning all the optimism I had about my aches and pains subsiding had disappeared, again...

I tell you, I am getting fed up with all this doom and gloom. I am getting pissed off with feeling shitty. I am getting incredibly self aware that all I ever seem to do is whinge and moan about feeling bad. I am also beginning to wonder if I might have something more serious wrong - the irony hasn't escaped me that I might end up with a really bad problem shortly after stopping smoking. I am also aware that when you do something like slip a disc or have a debilitating problem it does have an equally debilitating effect on your entire mind and body - its why people who suffer from severe depression are actively encouraged to get out of the house, go for walks, do things they wouldn't normally have the time to do and the last month has been difficult for me to do any of these things because of the constant pain.

I am also aware that writing about it has helped; which is why I still do it. The reality of this blog is that I get a kick out of the fact that a lot of people read it and the precious attention seeker inside me feels that its maybe self-defeating to have built up a following both through the blog and Facebook and then potentially put them all off by constantly telling them what an unlucky bugger I am, especially in light of the fact that we all have our own axes to grind and we all live in a world where reading about someone else's misery doesn't exactly inspire us. But, I don't think I'm searching for sympathy; I look at this as a diary; the same way John Diamond or Deborah Orr used or use their newspaper columns to talk about their cancers; or a guy called Greg, whose blog I found a couple of years ago, who basically blogged about what life was like after losing his arm and then 6 months later his wife; because she couldn't cope with his massive lifestyle change - so she left him. It made pretty depressing reading at times, but never once did he ever seem like he felt sorry for himself and I hope that I don't come across like that - even on the darkest days. But, yeah, as far as I know, having a back problem isn't life threatening; it doesn't compare to facing death every day; even if it has countless wrinkles that transpire to fuck me off and make my life feel like a chore sometimes...

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Have I mentioned that I still hate this keyboard? Despite all the thousands of words I've written over the last few months, it hasn't gotten any easier to use. At some point, I may just leave an entire paragraph without going back to take out the typos, just so you can see how bloody frustrating it is.

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Next time, I promise I'll have something to say and it'll be positive with maybe a joke or two thrown in, just to prove that I'm not the world's most miserable and self-centred arsehole!